Eighteen Seconds
by sweetdreams-sunnymornings
Summary: R & S use the tickets from the end of Smokin'17. A short, possibly humorous continuation/ beginning of 18, so small spoilers in Part 2. Makes more sense if you read my longer fics. Merc Ranger   Babe/ HEA implied. complete
1. Chapter 1

**SMALL SPOILERS **for Seventeen IN SECOND PART/ standard fanfic disclaimers

a/n This is a silly two part continuation of Seventeen...the upcoming Eighteen. It probably won't make sense unless you've read my other stories. LOL It may not make sense anyway, just - - -go with it , okay?

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><p><strong>Eighteen Seconds<strong>

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**Prolog**

_[Ranger]_

**Eighteen seconds...that's how long it took me to say yes** to Stephanie's invitation to spend two luxurious weeks in Thailand...with her. Alone. Just about as far from Trenton as we can get without going to the moon, I thought.

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**Part One: I am not a Fiction Hero**

_[Anthony, four months earlier]_

**They gave us rooms** in the officers' quarters at the Air Force base outside Kandahar, Afghanistan. We had finished a job and were waiting for an exfiltration thing in the morning.

A week ago Ranger had taken one good look at the only five star hotel in Kabul and refused to stay there. "The room has red walls." So we were stuck here instead.

Now we entered the officers mess, looking for a beer and a burger. The assorted officers gave us a few curious looks but no one challenged our right to eat with the officers. Ranger has that aura, ya know? And I suppose the army and AF guys were fairly used to scruffy spec ops agents in plain clothes wandering through their hallowed officers' areas. Probably some of them recognized us, despite our current disguises as local goatherds. Not that we cared.

The food there was pretty good and Lester and I chomped our burgers and fries with gusto. Ranger picked at grilled chicken, his eyes slowly wandering the room. He was giving off unhappy Ranger vibes but Les and I were tired and hungry and we ignored him.

"You know, Anthony, maybe you should buy a house here," he finally said to me.

"Here? In Afghanistan?"

"Somewhere in this hemisphere..."

"Afghanistan hasn't got any beaches, bro. Maybe...Thailand?"

...where the walls aren't red."

"Dubai?"

Ranger pinched the bridge of his nose like he was getting a migraine.

Lester said helpfully, "The walls here at the base are taupe, boss."

"Taupe. Why the fuck do they paint the walls taupe? Who the hell says _taupe,_ anyway , Santos?"

"They say taupe is very soothing, boss."

"...Soothing."

"Yeah."

"And we want our soldiers mellow?" snarked Ranger. "Maybe Goa?" he adds in my direction.

I took a swig of my beer and opened my mouth to tell Ranger I'd look into beachfront real estate somewhere nearby, but I was interrupted by the approach of a stern buzzcut-headed man in camouflage fatigues with eagles on the collar and a hopeful gleam in his eye. We looked up but didn't rise.

Ranger nodded a greeting. The officer said, "May I join you?"

Ranger stared at him but I waved my fork and said, "Have a seat."

The colonel—that's what the eagles meant, that he is a colonel...said, ''Do you know who I am?"

Les and I peered at the name tag. Nope. Never heard of him.

Ranger chewed, swallowed, and said, ''Do you know who _I_ am?''

The colonel held out his hand, "Tom Gillespie, Fourth Joint Special Forces. And yes, you're Carlos Manoso, right?"

We shook the man's hand but neither Lester nor I added our names. I sat silently and dialed "beachfront homes in A-stan" into the search window of my iPhone and listened to the colonel's pitch.

"We need a favor, Colonel Manoso."

"A favor?" echoed Ranger. Ranger doesn't like the word _favor_. It rhymes with _freebie_ and that is just so not him. Believe it or not Ranger can do a five (oh, okay, two,) minute monolog on how he is not running a charity, RMPMC is not the Salvation Army etc etc etc.

But sometimes favors are like money in the bank and this guy was a spec ops group leader who might come in handy.

We did him the courtesy of at least listening to his request.

...

**The favor? Some rug merchant** that the CIA is watching closely for ties to the Taliban or al-Qaeda, whoever. He is new in the city, comes and goes at random times, has a stall in the local open air market that caters to tourists and locals alike.

"We're picking up a strange source of downloads, a new wireless connection in his rooms." Seems the man stays at a cheap boarding house when he comes in on market days. Sleeps over, uses the unknown wireless device, then heads back to the hills."

We nod a little.

"The CIA people think his behavior is very suspicious," Gillespie had said.

"And? Where do you come in?" asked Ranger. "In fact, where do we come in?" He was being fairly polite but he still sounded cranky. And a little tired. Prob'ly only discernable to me, of course.

"Look, Colonel Manoso, I am just the messenger! CIA heard you're here and asked me to ask you if...?"

"They were too chickenshit to ask me themselves?''

"They were worried they can't afford you. Plus the DC red tape and all. You know?"

Sigh. "Go on."

"They asked me to approach you, see if you'd take the job."

''You want him dead?''

''No! No, and I myself don't want any part of this. And the Agency just wants you to talk to him!"

"Why can't the spooks from Langley talk to him?" I asked.

"He only seems to speak a mountain dialect, and right now they, the CIA?—and we, meaning the local military—have no one who can talk to this guy. We can't interrogate if we can't communicate. They can't, I mean."

...

**So here we are, an hour or two later** creeping down the smelly halls in the flophouse, avoiding unknown stains on the stairs and trying to remember not to breathe through our noses. We are still dressed as locals and all have grown beards for the real op the other night. I had to do the dye thing but Ranger and Lester look dark and scary, especially Ranger, with a week old beard.

We listen at the door. Nothing. Ranger kicks the door in. He's smiling. He is having fun, migraine, exhaustion and crankiness all gone. Ranger loves the hunt.

We burst in, weapons drawn, and rather small young man in Afghan clothing jumps away from the rickety table, his chair crashing to the floor behind him. He has a plate of food and a glass of tea on the bare table. Next to his meal is a tablet device, like my iPhone. The wireless connection in question no doubt.

The man is bug-eyed and terrified, he backs away with his hands held in the air. He looks like he might cry.

I am guessing he is in his mid-twenties, at the most.

Les subdues the subject and Ranger keeps him quiet by pointing his Glock at the guy's head. While they ask him his name and essentials, I pick up the tablet device and look it over.

It is not a phone or high tech network device. The tablet is a Kindle. I press the on button and it opens to a page in English. Huh. Ranger is speaking to the man in his dialect and the guy is protesting in the same language. I think he thinks we are the terrorists. I scan the page, then check the title.

"Yo. Ranger. This is the wireless device."

''Yeah?''

"He's reading the new Vince Flynn _Mitch Rapp_ book. It just came out." The man nods vigorously. I add, "In English."

Ranger turns to the man. "You read English? You understand me?" He has switched to speaking English, of course.

The man nods again. "Mitch Rapp. He is very cool operator! I buy the day it comes out! Very exciting books."

Lester finishes emptying the man's pockets, puts a small handful of coins and pocket crap on the rickety table. No weapons, not even a penknife.

The man, whose name turns out to be Bashir looks at Ranger. "Mitch Rapp is make-believe hero, I was thinking. But maybe he is real? You are him?" The man looks awed.

Even with the beard Ranger is handsomer and cooler than the fictitious Mitch Rapp. I tell the man, "Mitch is a thug. A hero but a thug; he's not just an assassin; he gets into it, he'll do the dirty work, interrogations, all kinds of stuff. He's a real badass."

The man nods happily.

I tell Ranger, "Mitch Rapp works for the CIA."

Ranger who has been spending too much time with Stephanie Plum rolls his eyes and says, "I know who Mitch Rapp is! Shut up! I am _not_ Mitch Rapp." Ranger is rubbing his forehead again; his migraine is back. He looks at all three of us. We nod. No one argues with Mitch Rapp. I mean Ranger.

Ranger turns away and runs his free hand through the man's meager pocket change. One coin is shiny and large. Ranger looks more closely, hands it to me. I ask Bashir, "What are you doing with a casino chip from MGM Grand in Vegas?"

"Is my good luck token."

We stare at him.

"I have dream. Someday I go to America, drive a cab in Las Vegas. You see?" Bashir points at the Kindle. "I come to the city..." We all look around, what city? "...to download American books onto my Kindle. Here in Kandahar we have Wi-Fi. I read Vince Flynn books and learn English, learn about America. Because someday..." He hopefully raises his eyes to Ranger.

Ranger up rights the chair, points to it. Tells Bashir, "Sit."

"Please, you sit too, Mr. Rapp. You will all have tea?" The regular people of the 'Stans are hospitable and polite; poor Bashir is offering his best if meagre welcome to his intruders, us. Ranger puts his Glock away, tucks it in the small of his back, in his waistband. Bashir watches the practiced motions with starry eyes. _Yeah. Ranger is cool, man_.

There are only two chairs so Lester and I prop ourselves up against the dusty wall, Lester behind Ranger, myself across the room behind our new friend. We don't put _our_ weapons away.

We have tea. In silence. Ranger is thinking. He doesn't have to beat the crap out of these guys. Sometimes he can just—_tell._ And in this case we could pretty much all tell, no ESP needed. Bashir is a nice young guy who likes American thrillers and action heroes. He is not an Islamic extremist and certainly no terrorist.

Ranger turns the Kindle slowly in his hands. Finally he says to Bashir, "I regret to tell you this, but the United States does not usually grant permanent work visas to people they think are, ah, plotting against us."

"What does that mean, Mr. Rapp?"

"Ranger. My name is Ranger."

"Yes...?"

"It means that..." Ranger meets my eyes.

I come over, stand across from Bashir. "It means that you should turn off your Wi-Fi after you download, dude," I tell him.

"That is all?" asks Bashir. His dark gaze searches Ranger's eyes, then mine, Lester's.

"I'll see what I can do for you, Bashir. I'll be in touch." Ranger pushes the casino chip across the table. "Don't lose this. It's worth a lot of money in Vegas—one thousand American dollars. And...enjoy your book." Ranger gently shoves the Kindle after the chip. I look down. On the screen Mitch Rapp is telling an old pal from his Clandestine service days in Europe_, "You're looking well, Donny..."_ Donatella Rahm is an ex-girlfriend/ assassin, ex-Mossad, in the series. The sexy Armani model does the purring thing and kisses Mitch on the lips. I touch the screen to continue. She tells Mitch, _"__It will be nice working with proper villains again! "_

I grin. Looks like Mitch is on the job one more time.

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><p>TBC: part two in a couple days<p>

**a/n so far as I recall Mitch has not hooked up with Donatella again, since the assassination attempt in _Separation Of Power_ . But maybe someday?**

**.**

**Mitch Rapp**** series by Vince Flynn. (Mitch is a thug. But he's cool. Good series.) I did not consider this a crossover story; if I'm wrong, ooops?**


	2. Chapter 2

**a/n: SPOILERS FOR SEVENTEEN **

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**Eighteen Seconds**

_**When 17 ended, **__Stephanie had a one-way ticket to Thailand and $12,000 in gift cards from American Airlines. Lula, Grandma and her mom were all urging her to choose a man and have a good time...pg. 307: "Girl, you could use those gift cards!" Lula said. "You could go on a vacation with the man of your dreams..."_

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><p><strong>Part 2 ~ <em>Fuck It<em>**

**.**

_**Like I said, it took me maybe eighteen seconds to say yes **to Stephanie's invitation __to spend two luxurious weeks in Thailand...with her. Alone. Just about as far from Trenton as we can get without going to the moon, I thought. _

_Stephanie told me, "The ticket I have so far is for some place called, uh, Fuck It...in Thailand?"_

_"Fuck it?''_

_"Yeah." She spelled it and I bit the inside of my cheek to keep from laughing._

_''I think it's pu-KET. There's no "f" in the Thai language."_

_She stared at me."How do you know this stuff?"_

_"..."_

_''Nevermind. So_—_you wanna go?" Stephanie asked._

_Probably you don't know this about me but I am a hopeless optimist. And so..._

_... ... ..._

**It's oh-six-hundred and we are lifting off the runway** on our way to Thailand. Actually it's 7.24 AM because even at this early hour Newark International is over-booked and busy, creating delays that the airlines try to convince us is just a normal part of modern travel. Kinda like they do with frisking everyone.

Despite the hour Stephanie is practically bouncing in the seat next to me. She peers out the tiny airplane window, sees just blue water below, and says, ''Thailand! Imagine that!"

_I've been to Thailand, I don't have to imagine._

Probably she won't be so perky when we arrive about thirty hours from now.

My silence makes her turn and look at me. She frowns a little. "What? You like Thai food, don't you?"

Yeah." But I can eat Thai in Jersey.

"...and it's amazing we got upgraded to first class."

Nothing amazing about it. I bribed the ticket agent at the airport to bump us up to first class. Can you imagine 30 hours in coach? I arranged for the airline to tell Steph they'd just had a cancellation and so we got those open seats...

... ... ...

_earlier at the American Airlines ticket counter, (and why don't we have e-tickets and boarding passes from their website? A seasoned travel planner, Stephanie is not!)_

_._

**We dragged our luggage** through the lines of cranky people, arrived at the counter to receive our tickets and boarding passes. Stephanie's ignorance about ticketing gave me the edge I needed. We showed our drivers licenses. The clerk typed.

''Oh yes! Ms Plum, and Mr...uuummm?—may I see your passports?" I handed over my black (yes, fake, sort of...maybe covert is a better word?) diplomatic passport. "Ah. Yes. Mr. —Rodriguez." _Freddy Rodriguez, _who of course does not really exist, is a state department employee, a cultural attaché (well-known cover for CIA agents stationed at embassies worldwide, but that's another story...). More typing. ''Oh, yes, I see we had a last minute cancellation! And we have upgraded you and Ms Plum to first class."

''Thank you.'' I didn't smile at her; we'd be here all day.

She still stared at me and stuttered a little, "That's, um, that's very fortunate—the cancellation, the plane is full, you know.''

_Uh huh._

"Wonderful," I told her and faintly smiled. Her fingers kept moving but no typing was being done.

Stephanie leaned past me, "Lady, are you okay?''

''Oh! Oh yes, sorry. So, ah, Mr. Rodriguez, will you be bringing your weapons into the cabin?"

Stephanie elbowed me in the ribs and said, ''No!''

I overruled her, "Yes." To Steph I said quietly, "I don't want to check them and then get the wrong bag by mistake. They could fall into the wrong hands at baggage claim.''

"It's a freakin' vacation, Ranger, you won't need a gun!''

"I'm always armed, babe, you know that." I turned to the airline woman, showed her my international weapons-carry creds.

She took them, read them. ''One moment, sir.'' The ticket woman conferred for awhile with, I presumed, a supervisor. Finally she returned, handed me all my documents, gave Steph back her license and passport and printed out the tickets we should have made up before we left the house. The ticket lady smiled wide. "Have a _great_ flight!"

_sigh. Next up security checkpoints._

Stephanie trotted along at my side trying to get a look at my passport. She had a tinge of disbelief in her voice as she said, "Even your passport is black? That's just—overkill, Ranger."

_In a manner of speaking._

_''_Babe. Here's the line for security.''

''Oh boy!'' Steph is easily sidetracked, "Now we gotta get full body scans!"

As if.

"I wore my new lace thong!"

"..." Yes, I was speechless. I hoped the TSA guy enjoys the thong as much as I will.

We got in line. We got our dirty plastic bins. Steph put in her cell phone, her jewelry, her purse. Her shoes. I was wearing jeans, a black t-shirt and a rumpled-on-purpose linen blazer. I performed the practiced motion that let me remove my jacket and my shoulder holster all at the same time. I put the gun and the jacket in the bin, holding the gun along with the side of the Rubbermaid thing. _Hmmm, I thought, big bucks in airline bin supply?_ I made a mental note to look into it with Anthony. _Maybe self-cleaning? _

We inched up. Steph whispered, ''What about your watch, your keys?"

I smiled at her.

She leaned in close. "Are you wearing an ankle gun? A knife?''

''Babe.''

"And you have to take off your shoes!" Her regular voice on that one. "I took off my shoes! But what if they want to frisk me anyway?" She was a little shrill.

"They won't, babe."

"Just put your bin here,'' said the bored out of his mind guard. ''Put your purse through the scanner separately. Step through the gate, ma'am.'' Steph looked at me and I nodded encouragingly. When she passed through with no issue, I took my jacket [and gun] out of the bin, stepped to the side of the scanner and opened my federal ID—my carry permit card and my black passport held with it like fanning a hand of cards. To the guards' credit, the two men stopped the scanner line and carefully read my info...for all of 15 seconds. They looked at my picture, then my face and they stepped aside, without challenge or comment. Nice and respectful. "Have a safe flight, sir."

Steph was waiting for me, hands on hips, eyes wide. ''What the hell was that, Ranger?''

I looked at her. "I don't take off my shoes, babe. Not even for the TSA.''

"Who _are_ you?" she whispered.

"C'mon, Steph. I'll buy you a mocha grande before we go to the gate." I steered her to Starbucks and safety. Or so I hoped. In the coffee shop she pointed to my jacket where I stashed my creds and passport. "Where did you get that?''

I thought a minute. ''Barney's?''

''Not the jacket! The free ride paperwork?''

I tried a smile. "EBay, babe. Shhhh, don't tell anyone."

Stephanie refused to laugh. Instead she bit her lip, turned away a little.

I caved. "What?" A little shrug, her face pale. "You worry about me, don't you?"

"No! It's just that..." She shrugged again, avoided my eyes.

"Well, I worry about you too." I took her hand.

She glared and pulled away. "Look, how many times have you been shot? It's just one more that's gonna do it."

''Stick and stones, Steph. I have two words for you: _Dave Brewer_. Look how many times you've been kidnapped or attacked by psycho killers.''

"Well, it seems like I've been luckier than most in that respect."

"Exactly."

Big sigh. "I hope this vacation doesn't turn into one of your _in the wind_ things!''

_Geez, me too._

I told her. "I hope this vacation doesn't turn into another hunt for some wacko who wants you dead, babe."

"It won't!"

"I'm just saying."

"And so you brought all your guns?"

"Not _all_ of them."

Steph mumbled, "This is a disaster! And we haven't even left Jersey!"

"Babe, we're going to the beach in Thailand. The only thing you need to worry about is the SPF number on your sunscreen. Relax, enjoy."

This time she let me hold her hand.

... ... ...

_Phuket Thailand International Airport_

**Many many hours later I am awakened** by Stephanie again saying, ''Oooh, champagne!'' The cabin crew is serving scrambled eggs and mimosas in first class. The jet engines make the sound shift that signals the descent into the airport at Phuket. By now Steph's just groggy, the bounce is gone; I am shooting for stoic. We deplane and she sleepily lets me walk her to the private terminal where our helicopter awaits. In the private air sector we breeze through customs and emigration-one of Anthony's "people" has expedited our arrival and also transferred our luggage right to the heli. I had planned to fly us out to Anthony's new villa on the beach past Phuket but he has sent a pair of professional pilots. I yawn and think, _Probably for the best._

Stephanie boards the luxurious heli and asks me, ''What hotel did you book us into? I can't believe they don't just send a limo or something.''

I told her I'd have someone make the lodging plans, if she did the airlines bit. Now I just tell her, "It's an island, the heli is easier. Takes two minutes.'' And even in those two minutes she falls back to sleep until we lightly touch down. Dawn is just breaking when we walk through a lush, exotic garden that is dotted here and there with fountains and ancient stone Buddha statues, up the steps to the villa.

"Omigod, this is gorgeous! It doesn't look like a hotel though...It's big, but...?"

The carved teak doors are flung open.

"And he doesn't look like a bell boy."

"Butler." I noted. "Or concierge?"

The man is Asian, deadpan, polite. Subtly lethal, armed. More than just a butler, of course. This was my stealth brother's house after all. "Sir. Madam.''

We're ushered in. I am too travel weary to explain about our absent host just now. Instead we look around in silence. The main hall is 15 feet wide and runs from the front door all the way through to an open lanai in the back. We can see the crystal aquamarine water, the tropical trees and flowers, the sugar white sands. Stephanie holds my hand and stares. ''Look at that beach, Ranger! And this place, it's so beautiful.''

The butler introduces himself as Han. He raises a commanding finger and we are instantly offered a tray of tropical fruit drinks. Han tells us, ''Mr. Stewart had the entire home redecorated, ma'am."

"This belongs to Anthony?" Steph asks me.

I shrug a fraction and nod. Han rescues me. "If you'll just follow me I will show you to your suite. Perhaps you'd enjoy breakfast shortly? On the lanai? Or...in your rooms?''

''I'll let you know, Han.'' By the pool sounded nice but I was betting Stephanie was headed back to dreamland; jetlag is a bitch on these long flights. That's why I asked Antonio to buy a safe house in this hemisphere. I suggested Goa, maybe?—but now I have to agree with him, if the surfing was good, Phuket is just about...perfect.

We are ushered through the house and into a guest wing. I look around. Someone had redecorated the villa in a sort of Hill tribes rustic meets Bali style, probably Antonio's mom—[She's an artist, it's not as dweeb-ish as it sounds] —and Dani his uber-efficient PA, along with a decorator. This means the furniture is heavy hand carved exotic wood, the walls are stucco'd white and the fabric things are dark indigo blue batiks from Bali or Tonga, I am guessing. It shrieks _money_ in a subdued, surfer way.

None of that Asian dainty silk and gilded stuff here. _Thank you, god, or aunt Olivia._

''At least the walls aren't red,'' I mumble.

**the end...**

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><p>an SPOILER Dave Brewer is the creepy guy in 17. (not sure his last name is Brewer, I m really bad w/ names, lol.)

a/n 2 Anthony's house: **Thai ****Hill tribes** is a term used in Thailand for all of the various tribal peoples who migrated from China and Tibet over the past few centuries. They now inhabit the remote border areas between Northern Thailand, Laos and Burma (Myanmar). They are known for their heavily carved exotic yet rustic wood furniture and artisan silver jewelry components, such as silver beads and chain. **Bali and Tonga **are Indonesian islands, southeast of Thailand, known for their beautiful indigo blue hand blocked batik cottons.


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